


all that you swallowed before grace

by agent_orange



Category: Social Network (2010) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Anxiety, Awkwardness, Cats, First Dates, Hospitalization, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Movie Night, New York City, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Self-Esteem Issues, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like the background noise of the city, Andrew is a constant presence for Jesse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all that you swallowed before grace

"Matilda," Jesse calls for what must be the eighth time that half-hour. From the corner, Beowulf lets out a thoughtful meow, but Jesse doesn't hear anything else. How could he have been so stupid to leave the door open when he went to get a tip for the delivery boy? That's clearly how Matilda got out, and there's no telling where she could be now.

At first, Jesse thought she was hiding, which obviously isn't the case. He sighs, picking up his phone and keys from the front table. He'll just have to go looking around the building. It's not that big; _someone_ could've seen a small black cat that's skittish around people.

Jesse has met—or has at least seen—roughly half of the people who live in his building, but he keeps to himself, so no one really bothers him. On occasion, he'll have tea with the library science grad student who lives in 2F, or let one of the little kids pet his cats, but that's about it. So it's understandable, if frustrating, that no one seems to be interested in helping him.

The few people he does find haven't seen Matilda, and Jesse's running out of ideas when he realizes there's a new tenant in the apartment directly below him, the one that had somehow been unoccupied for months. He has no idea who lives there, and he really hates bothering people, but he's getting really worried. A life could be at stake here.

( _Stop it,_ he tells himself. _You're just being dramatic_.)

Jesse takes deep, calming breaths, like his therapist tells him to when he's anxious, and knocks on the door. He can hear footsteps and the beep of a microwave, so someone's home. Good. A lock clicks and the door squeaks as it opens, and—oh, Jesse definitely wasn't expecting a gorgeous guy in hipster glasses and stripes.

"Hello," Gorgeous Guy says, giving Jesse a wide grin that shows off his blindingly white teeth. "Can I help you with something? He's got this posh British accent that makes Jesse think of Lewis Carroll and The Kooks and other generally cool British things.

Jesse realizes he's staring right into Gorgeous Guy's soulful brown eyes in a way that's probably creeping him out. He blinks and says, "I'm so s—so sorry to bother you, but I, um, live in, uh, 4A and I have foster cats and one of them got out somehow and I'm wondering if you might've seen her. She's black and kind of small, and she doesn't really like people."

Gorgeous Guy smiles again, and Jesse doesn't know if he's being mocked, but it makes his heart beat faster. "You're in luck. I came back from getting coffee and it was just waiting at my door," he explains. "I figured someone would come looking for it—who could forget a face that cute—so I just took it inside. Hopefully you don't mind. I moved in a couple weeks ago and haven't met many people, or I would have—"

"No, no, of course. Thank you so much," Jesse interrupts, then mentally kicks himself for doing so. Rude. "I'm Jesse." He sticks his hand out for the guy to shake. He hopes his palms aren't sweaty, because the guy's are warm and soft and really nice.

"I'm Andrew," the guy says. "And now that we're no longer strangers, please, come in."

Andrew's apartment has the same basic structure as Jesse's, but even with a few stray boxes and moving-related paraphernalia, it looks much more welcoming and lived-in than Jesse's does. He steps around a small pile of clothes and spots Matilda easily. She's sitting on a colorful blanket, after all, and looks content. Clearly she has no idea that Jesse had a panic attack, or else just doesn't care.

"There you are," he says. It's a little disconcerting that she doesn't come to him, but Andrew says, "I gave her some milk, so it's possible she'll stay forever.

Jesse lets out a nervous laugh. He can't really help himself. "Thanks again. I should probably take her now. I…" actually, he has the rest of the afternoon free, but he can only handle so much Charming British Hipster in a short time. "I'll see you around, I guess.

"My pleasure." Andrew smiles _again_ , and Jesse thinks he might just die. As Jesse's on his way out the door, Andrew stops him, his strong fingers locking around Jesse's wrist. "Would you be up for coffee sometime? I still don't know very many people here, and you seem like someone who won't murder me in my sleep."

"Y—yeah," Jesse manages, and quicker than he can register, Andrew has a pen in hand and is scrawling numbers just above Jesse's knuckles.

"Great," Andrew says, and on the way back to his apartment, Jesse shakes so hard he almost drops Matilda.

*

As hard as he tries over the next few days, Jesse just can't stop thinking about Andrew. It's not something all-consuming—he goes to his classes and grades essays and even manages to write a little—but, like the background noise of the city, Andrew is a constant presence for Jesse.

He finds himself easily distracted by just a memory, the lingering sound of Andrew's adorable accent. Jesse even has an argument with himself over whether he should make his protagonist British.

The phone number isn't on his hand anymore (Jesse had the good sense to write it down in his address book _and_ store it in his cell), but he runs his fingers over it anyway, pretending he can feel the strokes of Andrew's pen, the ink drying on his skin seconds later. The places on Jesse's wrist that Andrew touched seem to be warmer than the rest of his body, and Jesse has to close his eyes to stop picturing Andrew's face. He can't even pinpoint what, exactly, about Andrew is making him act like this, though that doesn't stop him from trying.

In the end, his rational side wins out and he closes his notebook altogether, since he's just projecting his feelings onto his work, and not in a good way. His novel is supposed to be a modern/dystopian fusion of _Crime and Punishment_ and _The Alchemist_ , and Andrew is far too cheery and kind for that. Maybe if he finishes the chapter, he'll let himself write a short...poem of admiration.

Except that turns out extremely creepy, so Jesse crumples up the page, finds a LUNA bar in his mess of a kitchen, and settles in with the cats for a night of _Journey to Planet Earth_ on PBS.

*

Completely unhelpfully, Jesse's therapist (psychologist, not psychiatrist today) thinks that his gigantic crush on Andrew is some kind of gigantic leap forward.

"If I'm correct," she says, looking down through her glasses as she flips through a stack of notes, "this is the first time you've expressed romantic feelings for someone since...Bellevue."

Jesse really hopes she doesn't linger on his stay there, because he's mostly better, but doesn't like talking about it.

"This is a good thing, Jesse," Dr. Chan continues. "I do want you to avoid obsessing about Andrew, especially considering your progress lately. Do you have any techniques that might help, other than increasing your medication?"

"Um…" Jesse has to stop and think for a moment. The Zoloft keeps his anxious and obsessive-compulsive tendencies to what he considers an acceptable level, but Andrew is a wrench in the plan. Granted, a polite, very attractive wrench, but a wrench nonetheless. "Um, maybe I should go outside more? Or, uh, exercise or something?"

Dr. Chan smiles. "Yes, those are both good ideas. Let me know if you notice a spike in your anxiety and we'll reevaluate. Do you want to tell me more about Andrew?"

*

After spending forty minutes rambling about his (maybe) five-minute interaction with Andrew, Jesse's convinced his feelings aren't warranted, given their short meeting, and decides to ask Andrew out. (With a big push from Dr. Chan, obviously.)

Back at his apartment after a decent walk (which, shock and horror, actually does make Jesse feel a little better) he feeds the cats, checks the mail, and sits down with his notebook to brainstorm first date ideas. Of course, he doesn't even know if Andrew will say yes, but that's beside the point. (He also doesn't know if Andrew is straight or gay or something else entirely, which is _not_ beside the point, but if Jesse starts worrying about that, he'll never have the courage to even ask.)

> movie (genre? plot? what's even playing?) too impersonal  
>  dinner (what type of food? what neighborhood?) possibility of embarrassment too high

(Jesse has to resort to Google here, unfortunately enough, because his idea of a good date is reading and/or writing poetry over tea, and most people wouldn't like that.)

> bowling (where can you even bowl in the city?) lack of athletic ability  
>  seeing a show (what show?) too expensive for a first date, unless the tickets were day-of half-price  
>  picnic in the park  
>  aquarium

The aquarium would probably work out, since Jesse knows Andrew doesn't hate animals, at least, and who doesn't love a picnic in the park? Of course, he'd have to either make the food himself (which he's not very good at) or buy it from somewhere that's tasty and sanitary, but he's trying to just go with it and figure out the details when the time comes.

It's the middle of the day, and Jesse doesn't exactly keep typical hours. While he doesn't know what Andrew does, Jesse assumes he's at work, and his date inquiry will have to wait until tonight.

The short story he's got due in a few days seems to practically write itself. Jesse wonders if it's a byproduct of having his shit semi-together for once. Either way, it just needs to be polished, edited by someone who isn't him, and sent to _Inertia_.

In a move that manages to surprise himself, Jesse scrounges up the ingredients for pita tacos and figures he can bring a couple to Andrew as a sort of pre-date/token of appreciation for finding his cat. If he had something besides grocery-store wine, he'd bring it to calm his nerves, but he tries a few "deep calming breaths" and heads up.

There's no answer when he knocks, though, and Jesse is so stupid for not calling beforehand because Andrew probably has a life and friends and doesn't hang around his apartment seventy-five percent of the time.

Sighing, Jesse leaves the plate (which is already covered in plastic wrap) by the door, and fumbles around in his pocket until he finds a pen and scrap of paper so he can leave a note. Tonight is just going to be another night when Jesse has half a glass of cheap red wine and reads old books and feels lonely.

*

Jesse wakes up feeling just as miserable as the day before.Since his story is basically finished and he doesn't have therapy until much later, Jesse allows himself to wallow a bit more. He really doesn't feel like writing to express himself, so he wraps himself in a blanket and curls up on the couch with AMC and a bagel.

He nibbles until it's gone and then toasts another, which is terrible, because bagels have all the carbohydrates in them. Four servings of bread in each. He is going to get fat and more lazy than he already is and then Andrew will never want him. Jesse will just turn into a lonely old cat man and become agoraphobic and die surrounded by piles of old, faded maps.

There's a knock on the door and he jumps, sending crumbs flying everywhere. The plate cracks when it hits the floor, and Jesse swears loudly.

"Everything okay?" the person at the door calls, and Jesse realizes it's Andrew.

Motherfucking _shit_. His apartment is a mess. There's no time to straighten it up without keeping Andrew waiting, which means that Jesse is going to look like a complete slob in under thirty seconds. Even trying to quickly smooth out his boxers and t-shirt doesn't work.

"I'm so sorry," he says as soon as he opens the door, figuring it can't hurt to start with an apology.

"For what?" Andrew looks genuinely confused. "I'm the one who should be sorry. You tried to bring me a wonderful dinner and I wasn't there. They were delicious; I just—I work a lot of nights and I had no idea you'd come up to see me."

"Oh," Jesse says, gaping a little. _Maybe_ he panicked without a reason. "It's really not a big deal at all. So, um, what do you do?" he asks, hoping Andrew's not, like, a stripper or something equally unbefitting of his classiness.

"I have a small catering business," Andrew answers, and Jesse can't help but get this image of Andrew in an apron, deftly chopping...things and tasting other things.

"Actually, you should let me make dinner for you sometime! But that's not why I'm here."

"Why _are_ you here, then?" Even with a purpose, Jesse's apartment isn't someplace most people want to (or should) be.

"If you're not too busy—really, don't let me upend your day—I was hoping you might want to go out. With me, I mean."

Someone really needs to pinch Jesse, because he must be dreaming. Andrew agreeing to go out with him was a long shot, Jesse was positive.

"This is terribly unromantic," Andrew laughs self-deprecatingly, "but I have a load of errands to run, and I thought maybe we could grab lunch after or catch an early movie."

"Yes!" Jesse answers too quickly. "I've got a couple things to do, too." He doesn't, really, but why procrastinate doing laundry/keep wearing dirty clothes if he can spend time with Andrew. "Let me just, uh, get dressed and grab some stuff and...yeah."

"Should I wait outside?" Andrew asks.

"No, you don't have to," Jesse says. "Sorry about the mess."

"Oh, not at all." Andrew smiles, and Jesse melts just a little inside.

*

When Jesse comes back from changing and doing the necessary hygienic things and grabbing what he thinks he'll need for the day, Andrew is sitting on the couch with a book in his hands— _Coyote Blue_.

He sets it down gently, stands up, and gestures towards the door. "Shall we?" he asks, and Jesse doesn't think he'll ever get over how lovely Andrew's accent and voice are.

*

The laundromat is only a few blocks away, but the bag of laundry Andrew is hauling seems disproportionately large, especially for someone who hasn't lived in the same apartment long enough to unpack all the boxes. It's not something Jesse questions, though, since he doesn't want Andrew to think he's overly critical.

They split the cost of detergent and softener, and then Andrew plunks down on the worn bench, knees crossed, elbow resting there, and his chin in his hand.

"So, Jesse," he says, "how are the cats?"

"Fine. Attention-seeking, as usual. I have no idea how someone else will have the time to take care of them."

"They're not yours?" Andrew looks adorably confused.

"No, I'm their foster parent, which is probably as weird as it sounds, but it's so the shelter has time to find a good owner instead of having to rush," Jesse explains. "I thought I mentioned that? Sometimes the cats are with me for months and get kind of attached."

"How terrible," Andrew pouts. Jesse can't tell if he's being mocked or not, but decides he doesn't really care, since Andrew is hardly being outright mean. "I wanted to bring my dog over, but I couldn't really find an apartment, you know?" Instantly, Jesse feels bad, and that must show on his face, because Andrew assures him that it's fine. "My job includes a lot of long days, so he probably would have felt very neglected."

"True," Jesse agrees. "I have kind of an odd schedule, and the cats do fine, so…"

"What is it that you do?"

"I’m a writer." Andrew probably hasn’t read any of Jesse’s work, which is good, because Jesse thinks that his issues come through in his writing. "And I’m getting an MFA, so I TA a few classes and work at a coffee shop to help out with the bills."

"Wow. In what specifically?"

"Creative Writing. I write a lot of different things, but mostly plays for school."

"That's brilliant, Jesse." Andrew looks directly at him, and smiles, warm and open. Suddenly, Jesse feels this intense need to turn his head away. He's not even that good.

"I can barely cook for myself. And having your own company sounds pretty cool, too," he offers. "Seriously. I live on, like, deli meals, takeout, and things that can be cooked with fewer than five ingredients."

"Ah, that's why you're so skinny. I need a few things at the market anyway, so if you want, I can show you how to make something later on."

"Really?" Jesse tries not to sound too desperate, or like he just wants to use Andrew for his culinary skills. "That'd be great."  

"Ny pleasure. You must get bored without much variety."  

Jesse shrugs. "I'm one of those people who only eats because I need to live. I probably read books like you cook and/or eat, if that makes any sense."

"Tell me more about yourself," Andrew says, leaning forward a little. "You're fascinating, Jesse."

Predictably," Jesse blushes bright red, all the way up to the tips of his ears. These are the kind of situations where he just wants to shrink into himself and shut out the world. He's a below-average guy with a weird yet boring life, and interesting, funny Andrew is basically asking Jesse to ramble on about his neuroses. Jesse tries to argue that there isn't much to tell, but Andrew isn't having it.

Andrew makes him start at the beginning, asking about his childhood and his parents and what it was like to grow up in New York, all the while listening intently. He laughs in all the right places and looks sad when it's appropriate to, and Jesse can't remember the last time he talked to someone for so long (not counting therapy) without them getting bored or weirded out.

"Um, excuse me," someone says, and they both look up, startled. There's a very orange blonde girl standing by the washing machine. "Are you guys, like, done with this? I kind of need it." She's holding a very large trash bag and looks irritated.

Neither of them noticed that the cycle ended almost thirty minutes ago. Andrew apologizes, which seems to placate her, and removes their laundry (Jesse's first, and then his own).

"Where to next?" Jesse asks. _I'll go anywhere with you_ , he thinks, which he knows is something he should never, under any circumstances, say.

"Bank, post office, and grocery shop, if that's okay with you," Andrew lists.

At the bank, he waits outside as Andrew cashes a check, taking a minute to clear his head. Since he mails a lot of pieces out to magazines, he stocks up on envelopes—it seems like he's always running low.

Normally, Jesse gets his food (human and cat) at the corner store (deli, if he feels like splurging), but Andrew clucks his tongue, pulls out his MetroCard, and takes Jesse to some fancy store called Gourmet Garage. Jesse's not sure if there's anything he can afford, but Andrew looks like he's died and gone to heaven.

"I'm friends with the assistant manager," Andrew assures him. "It won't be as bad as you think." He says it's a surprise when Jesse asks what they're making with all these ingredients and product, most of which Jesse has never even heard of. "Be spontaneous," is the only concrete answer he gets.

Luckily, most of what Andrew loads into his miniature basket is for him/his catering business, but he says they'll be able to make a nice lunch. He makes sure to keep the food very close to him on the way back so no one takes it. (It's happened before, okay?)

Andrew's apartment has better equipment for cooking (obviously), but Jesse needs to feed and check on the cats, so they split up for a few minutes. It dawns on Jesse that he's actually being social and somewhat functional with a decent amount of success. All he has to do now is keep from fucking up and see if Andrew likes him enough to go out on a date somewhere real.

"I'll be back later," he says, remembering once again that talking to animals doesn't really say he's normal.

Unlike Jesse's own, Andrew's apartment is nearly spotless, and the fridge (as well as the cabinets) are fully stocked. His oven is almost brand-new and very high tech, almost scarily so. Jesse offers to run back down and bring up a bottle of wine, since he feels shitty about being kind of useless, but Andrew shakes his head and tells Jesse to cut and scrub the potatoes in the bowl.

Jesse does as he's told, because it's not like he knows any better, and Andrew seems to be satisfied enough to start on the main dish.

The silence is surprisingly comfortable, the sounds of glass and shakers and quiet instructions slipping in every now and then. He's surprised when the oven actually tells him it's ready to go, since most ovens don't, you know, talk. Andrew laughs like it's just adorable and asks Jesse to stick the potatoes in a pan and the pan in the oven while he finishes up with the chicken.

"We could do dessert, too," he adds, "but all I have is cake mix. Please don't call the food police on me. They take away business licenses for this kind of thing, you know."

"I am _shocked_!" Jesse gasps in mock-horror. "How could you? Aren't mixes against the laws of proper cooking and/or baking etiquette?"

"Normally, yes," Andrew admits. "But we're already cooking other things from scratch, so it cancels the mix out."

"That explains it." Jesse laughs, one that makes him feel light inside. "The potatoes should be almost done, right?"  

"Good catch!" Andrew peeks through the oven door before opening it and removing the pan. "Perfect," he declares, and Jesse feels a flush of pride, even though nothing he had to do was complicated or even moderately difficult. "Lunch is served. ...In about five or ten minutes. Sorry. Can I get you a drink?"

Jesse really wants a coffee, extra-large and black with a shot of espresso, because he thrives on nervous energy, but accepts a can of Coke instead. The condensation dampens his palm, which he wipes across his jeans before accepting the plate of oven fries and green beans.

"Go ahead and start," Andrew says. "I'm just going to wait for the rest. Excuse the table."

It's tiny, like a café table, and the round surface is covered in books and recipes. Jesse clears a small space for his plate to avoid staining anything, and digs in.

The food is delicious. Probably the best he's had in years, and somehow, he helped make it good. He says so, and Andrew chuckles.

"Are you surprised? I make my living doing this, and you clearly have some hidden talent. Do you want any salt or pepper for the fries?" 

Jesse shakes his head. "They're great already. You must be kidding about the hidden talent thing. I burn _toast_. Once, I started a kitchen fire when I was trying to make birthday cake. There's no way I helped."

"You don't give yourself nearly enough credit, Jesse," Andrew says with this soft smile. "Ready for the main course?"

"Definitely," Jesse answers, returning his other plate to the counter so he has room—on the table and in his stomach—for the platter of sweet-smelling chicken Andrew puts down.

"Let me know if it's okay. I think I went a bit heavy on the orange juice."

After taking a few bites, Jesse's able to say with complete confidence that no, Andrew did an amazing job, and absolutely nothing's wrong with the food. It's flavorful without being overpowering, and nothing is overpowered by anything else. People who have Andrew cater their parties are really lucky, Jesse thinks, and also probably rich. But Andrew has a lot of skill, so it's not like he's cheating anyone.

"I'd love to hear more about what you write. Books have always been kind of an escape for me, but I figured I couldn't exactly try my hand at writing with the marks I got in lit and language classes," Andrew says. He's thoroughly peppering his chicken, which is kind of odd, because it's supposed to be sweet, but Jesse's sure Andrew knows best when it comes to anything food-related.

"Well, I had a couple pieces published last month—really short stories; nothing substantial. One was about all the vacations and trips my parents dragged my sisters and me on when we were younger. There's a copy of it in my apartment if you're really interested, but I promise you've read a better story about the same topic somewhere."

"And the other?" Andrew prompts.

"That one's, um, kind of a romance, but a completely dysfunctional one. Always in the wrong place in the wrong time, that sort of thing. But when they finally get together...well, it's got a pretty open ending, so it's left up to the reader to draw their own conclusions."

"They both sound fantastic. If you don't have class or anything after this, I'd be interested to see them," Andrew says once he's finished chewing.

"Well, I have a...thing at five, but yeah, that should be doable," Jesse says. This is when he starts to blush furiously, because he doesn't do well with compliments or attention or...gorgeous British boys who seem to be interested in him, for whatever reason. Most people write Jesse off as some socially inept loner who isn't worth getting to know, but Andrew hasn't, for whatever reason, and seems to be, shockingly, actually kind of _charmed_ by Jesse.

"That's hardly true. You've been published in The _New Yorker_. There are only twenty-two other students in your writing program. And you seem like a truly good person."

While in theory Jesse knows it's impossible (or he'd be in cardiac arrest), in practice his heart feels like it's skipped a beat.

"How did you know that? The first two things, I mean."

"Shit." Andrew ducks his head. "I'm so sorry. This is going to sound terribly stalkerish, but I asked the landlord your name after we met, and then I did a quick Google search, just to see. I hope you're not too angry."

Considering that Jesse uses Google to find out everything he can about people without talking to him, not really. And he doesn't really have any grounds, given his actions.

"No," Jesse says. "I'm not. Everyone uses Google to research people. It's completely fine. I just though that...you know, the MFA program is full of talented people and I wouldn't be anywhere near the top."

"Oh, I see. You're someone who never gives himself enough credit," Andrew says it. "So how about this: when we're finished eating, we'll go up to apartment and, if you'll let me, I'll read something you've written. And I'll tell you what I think, but the only opinions that really matter are the ones of people who care about you, yeah?"

Pupils blown almost impossibly wide, Jesse nods. He's hyperaware of Andrew's hand on top of his own, the way their breathing has synced. The room seems to have grown warmer all of a sudden; Jesse's sure his shirt is damply stuck to the back of his neck, the rungs of his spine. It's not as uncomfortable as it probably should be, though.

All he can say is _mmm_ and take a long pull from his Coke. When he swallows, it's so loud that Andrew has to hear it. The rest of lunch seems to simultaneously drag on and fly by; Jesse hardly tastes his food. Andrew clears the table and Jesse puts the plates into the dishwasher, cutting down on clean-up time.

"Ready?" Andrew asks. He locks up on the way out and stays close to Jesse as they walk down the flight of stairs. The cats—fucking traitors—nearly swarm Andrew but ignore Jesse completely, which he apologizes for. And of course Andrew says he doesn't mind.

Jesse's hands shake as he fumbles with his key—the lock doesn't even stick; he must look like the biggest idiot on the entire fucking planet right now. After what seem like endlessly long minutes, he feels hands covering his own, and the door's pushed open.

"Relax," he hears, and even though he's close to Andrew the words sound like Jesse's underwater. "No nerves here. You don't have to show me if you don't want to."

"I'd like to," Jesse insists. "My...I'm trying to work on opening up to other people more, you know? Let me just grab them from my desk." Sitting there waiting while someone is reading his writing is almost impossible for Jesse, so he tells Andrew to find him when he's finished, and locks himself in the bedroom to pace.

It seems like that takes forever, even though, since Jesse left him a few shorter things, it's closer to twenty minutes. He opens the bedroom door to find Andrew sitting where Jesse left him, looking sort of shocked, eyes glazed-over.

"That bad, huh?" he half-jokes. "Should I not have?"

"Wow." Andrew hands him back the papers. "I knew you must be good, but I didn't know you'd be so innovative. There's so much out there that I'm sure it's difficult to come up with fresh ideas, and not only did you do that, but god, just the way you presented it is amazing. I really appreciate you sharing it with me."

"It was no problem," Jesse practically squeaks, a little uncomfortable with all the praise. "After all, it's not like they're in high demand."

"Oh, stop," Andrew says, tugging Jesse's wrist until they're sitting next to each other. "Don't be so modest."

Jesse freezes up. The physical contact, the compliments, the amazing food...it's all a little too much for him. Okay, it's a lot too much for him, and the feeling of an imminent panic attack is there. But Andrew doesn't move his hand, and Jesse feels compelled to say something.

"It's a character flaw, I guess," he says with a nervous little laugh. "Sorry."

"I wish you could see how great you truly are," Andrew whispers. He brushes one of Jesse’s curls back and leans in, their lips fractions of a millimeter from touching.

He has a strong urge to pull away, due to embarrassment and discomfort, because it's so rare that anyone is this sweet and kind to him, but Andrew's fingers are wrapped around Jesse's neck, holding him close. When he tries to protest, Andrew quietly shushes him, bringing his thumb up to Jesse's mouth, pressing down just the slightest bit.

"Tell me if I'm crossing any lines here," Andrew says. "You're kind of hard to read."

And then he eases his thumb back and closes the short distance between their faces.

It takes Jesse a few seconds to even register what's going on, and then all he knows at first is that Andrew's lips are both very warm and very soft. Only then does he realize that the excellent impression of a dead fish he's doing can't be very attractive, so he tries to loosen up and be an active participant.

He can feel Andrew smiling into it just enough for their tongues to touch, and then it's like someone lit a fire in Jesse's belly and he can't get enough. He gets his hands in Andrew's ridiculously coiffed hair, tugging and twisting what he can separate—partly for control, but partly just to feel. The products in it make Jesse's palms a little slicker, not that he minds. It makes the whole thing easier, actually.

Somehow, they both end up kind of sprawled out on the couch. Jesse's feet rest on the arm, and Andrew's thighs bracketing Jesse's hips. Every so often, he'll press his weight down or shift it, so Jesse'll have to move his hands up higher for focus.

Neither of them even undo their pants (though their clothes don't stay neat), but it feels more intimate than sex, getting to know each other with lips and tongue and the occasional murmured words. Even more so because it's been an embarrassingly long time since someone else has touched him.

The sun eventually goes from directly overhead to shining into the window, which Jesse notices only because it burns his eyes and he has to move Andrew in order to sit up. When he looks at his watch, the time shocks him.

"Shit," Jesse says, and then repeats himself just to be sure. "I have to go. I have a, um...thing in, like, forty-five minutes. I'm sorry, I completely forgot until just now and I can't really skip it."

"Go," Andrew says. "Not a problem. We both managed to let time get away from us."

Jesse wonders how he got to go on a date with someone so kind and understanding, and managed to be surprised when Andrew asks if he can call Jesse. They kiss outside of Jesse's apartment, and then he takes the train into Manhattan, a bundle of energy fidgeting in his seat.

His doctor comments again that he seems happier, but does reiterate her point about keeping his stress levels in check.

"Try not to imagine the worst-case scenarios, Jesse," she says. "I just worry you'll fall into that trap again."

At the end of the session, she refills his prescriptions and wishes him luck with Andrew, and Jesse thinks about him the whole train ride back to his apartment. He'd love to stop and see him again, but thinks it might be too much all at once.

Instead, he lies on his bed, notebook in hand, and scribbles pages of half-formed paragraphs and character descriptions, until his stomach demands to be fed. There's a box of mac and cheese in the cupboards, and as Jesse stands over the stove, he can imagine Andrew cooking a fancy dinner for whatever huge event he must be catering.

*

Despite their makeout session, Jesse's kind of surprised when Andrew calls him for a second date. Most people get enough of his eccentricities after a day or so. But not Andrew, apparently. He gushes again about how much he loved seeing Jesse's writing and how quickly he picked up cooking, and suggests they go to the opening of some ridiculously fancy art gallery in Midtown. Naturally, Jesse is all for doing anything creative or artistic, even if they're going as viewers and not actively participating.

"I hope I'm not being too odd," Andrew starts, "but I'm working some really posh party tonight—lobster, champagne, the whole deal—and I thought you might like if I dropped off some of the inevitable extras? These people hire me for their guests to just pick at the food, it seems like."

"Wow," Jesse says with a whistle. "That would be amazing. I don't normally keep much food around the apartment, and I'm sure anything you make will be fantastic."

Making food for people who don't eat it must be annoying (Jesse's sister is picky; their mother would agree with him), but he doesn't mention that, wary of bringing negativity into the conversation.

"I'll be sort of late," Andrew says, "but think of it as European."  Jesse laughs. "Will do."

*

Their second date is cemented when Andrew stops by—and really late, true to his word. He stays while Jesse eats, urging him to have more baked potato, try another truffle. After cleanup is done, they kiss against the counter before Jesse finally has to get to bed for his early class.

Even though it's a little unorthodox, Jesse uses their date (which a couple days away) as motivation to get as much of his story done as possible. He doesn't leave the apartment except to get food, and he does that as quickly as he can, knowing that seeing Andrew will only distract him.

When the day finally comes, Jesse agonizes about what to wear. It's out of character for him, but Andrew is so well-dressed that Jesse can't just show up in jeans and an Indiana t-shirt.

They meet at the theater, this tiny little space crushed between a pawn shop and a doctor's office, decorated like it's straight out of the 1940s. Andrew buys the tickets and even pronounces the weird foreign title right, so Jesse gets popcorn and Cokes.

When he focuses enough to read the subtitles, the movie seems good enough. That's how he spends most of the time, though, because maybe ten minutes in, Andrew's hand drops from the armrest and onto Jesse's. He shifts his own so their palms are touching, and the warmth and contact are unexpected, but really nice, if distracting.

Every so often, he glances over at Andrew, who seems perfectly calm. Unlike Jesse, his face is perfectly dry; his skin isn't flushed. Then again, Jesse can't really expect people to have the same reactions he does. Social interaction just makes him nervous, and he doesn't want to scare Andrew off.

He eventually gets used to the slight pressure of Andrew's fingers, the way their thighs are pressed together, if only out of self-preservation. It's not like they can do much more than this here, anyway. Jesse shudders to think of what's been on the floor. That wouldn't be a good time.

The credits finally roll, and Jesse sits there, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Andrew's mouth is red and wet, sinful-looking. even in the dim light. Or _especially_ in the dim light. He can't be bothered to decide. But people around them start getting up to leave, so Jesse doesn't think it'd be a good idea to lean in and kiss the butter off Andrew's lips. Plus, he really hates PDA.

"I have to grade papers," Jesse blurts out randomly. Hey, it pops into his head (because he _does_ have to), and it keeps him from staring at Andrew's delicious-looking mouth. "I don't want to, because you're here and they make me kind of insecure about my own writing, but they're due tomorrow, so…"

"You can head back. It's fine," Andrew says as he drops their trash into the can.

"No, I mean." Shit. Jesse's trying to say one thing and nothing's coming out right and this isn't helping him act like a normal person. "Can you...are you busy? You probably have, like, catering things to do and all that, but if you don't, I'd really like it if you came back with me. If you want, I mean."  

"Well, I'm heading in that direction anyway, so I guess it wouldn't be too much trouble." The edge of Andrew's lip quirks up, and he takes Jesse's hand before they can be separated by everyone pushing their way along the sidewalk.

*

Without a lot of discussion (or even Jesse being fully aware of it), they've sort of fallen into a relationship, sharing tea in the mornings before they go their separate ways, having old movie and cuddle marathons on the couch when schedules allow. They haven't had sex, which is really fine, especially given Jesse's Zoloft use, but they've done a lot.

Sometimes, Andrew shows up at Jesse's apartment unannounced (not that Jesse minds, really, because Andrew is so amazing). Inevitably, he'll have something buttery—rich, doughy bread; fish or chicken with sauce; sweet, fruity pie. Jesse's tried telling Andrew it's not necessary, because it seems like a lot of work, and he's not picky about what he eats.

But Andrew insists.

"You're too skinny," he says, pushing another peanut butter brownie at Jesse. "I worry about you, you know."

 It's kind of like having his mother just down the hall, only his mother isn't...well, isn't Andrew, who will stand at the Formica counter and just watch as Jesse writes and plays with the cats. The first time Jesse caught him staring, he was embarrassed, but now it's a regular occurrence, and flattering.

When Jesse hits a stumbling block, Andrew will open the oven and produce something Jesse had no idea was even in there and offer to proofread or help brainstorm. He'll play with the cats if Jesse needs a break, and even run out to get more notebooks and pens. It shouldn't be possible for one person to be so perfect, but Andrew is.

Of course, he's constantly worried about saying the wrong thing and making an ass of himself, or just doing something to fuck up what they have. Andrew gets this, somehow, and reassures Jesse he has nothing to worry about. Which only makes Jesse worry more, really, because how can he deserve someone so great?

He says this once and Andrew walks out of Jesse's apartment and into the street. The three days he's unreachable, Jesse's a zombie, barely functioning on auto-pilot for classes and work. His cats get fed, but without Andrew reminding him to eat something himself, the contents of his stomach end up being, like, cherry soda, a hot dog, and a couple bruised apples.

It's bad without him. Jesse hadn't realized how much. When he finally caves, it's because the thought of spending another night alone was just too overwhelming, and Andrew promises he'll be at Jesse's place as soon as the gallery opening he's working finishes up.

Though Jesse forces himself to stay awake until Andrew gets there, he's had a long day and is drifting off when Andrew gets there and crashes completely when Andrew slips into bed next to him.

*

Andrew's waiting at the kitchen table when Jesse gets up the next morning, freshly showered and sipping a mug of coffee. He never drinks coffee. This can't be a good sign.

"We should probably talk about your self-esteem issues," he suggests, and Jesse instantly gets defensive, insists that he doesn't have any.

"I guess I just think you could do a lot better," Jesse admits.

"Are you trying to get rid of me? I don't get any of this. What can I do that's going to be enough?" Andrew asks, standing up with an exasperated sigh.

"Shit," Jesse says, because his fears about Andrew leaving are probably going to come true now. The overwhelming urge to turn back around and bury himself under his blankets overtakes him, but Andrew follows and gently pulls them back.

"I"m not leaving," he says, cuddling up so he can speak directly into Jesse's ear. "We can talk later. Sleep. I promise I'll be here when you wake up."


End file.
